


Anchorage

by aronnaxs



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: 10 Sentence Fiction, Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: Bekowsky knows what Cole needs, even if he doesn’t.
Relationships: Stefan Bekowsky/Cole Phelps
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Anchorage

**Author's Note:**

> so I’ve been going back through old fics and I found this one which I didn’t think was so bad. Hope you enjoy :)

For the first time in so long, Phelps can’t feel the aching guilt or the strain of his responsibilities or the pressure of his spiralling career - hell, he can’t even think - and he doesn’t care if that is selfish, because everything feels so good.

Every thrust is scattering his heavy thoughts, turning them to air, and threatening to engulf him in the stars swarming in his eyes. 

He is grabbing at Bekowsky’s back, tightening his thighs about his waist, biting the insides of his lips until he can almost taste blood, shutting his eyes when the feelings become too intense, but oh god, it is everything at once, and he can’t control it, can’t - can’t control it - 

It is like the freedom he has always denied himself; has always thought he didn’t deserve, and it is incredible.

Bekowsky takes his hips, slams them down onto him, and no one else would dare to do this to the Golden Boy of the LAPD but Bekowsky, Bekowsky, Bekowsky (!!) is different; he knows him too well, or maybe he doesn’t know him well enough so still dares to get this close...

Phelps is gripping on for dear life, holding onto the nearest thing to give him some anchorage, and he is trying to make this last as long as he can, but there has been a void inside of him since his promotion, and now, Bekowsky is here, and he is so deep, and filling him, and he has always known what Phelps wants before even he does.

“Stefan, Stefan,” he can hear himself sighing, and damn the man for being every bit as good at this as he says he is, damn him for weaving his way into his life, damn him for making him moan like this, so unbridled, so undone, so unlike him.

Bekowsky knows which buttons to press with Phelps, knows how to wind him tight, knows how to let him go, and knows that all it will take now is a small, heated whisper of “attaboy, come for me,” the permission and praise he hates to admit he craves, and his thighs will shake, and his back will arch, and he will scratch long scars up Bekowsky’s arms, and give him what he’s asked for.

When they sleep, though once he would have been ashamed to be near him, Phelps now curls an arm around Bekowsky and lets him in, tangled around the covers like there is nothing wrong.

And for a while, Los Angeles remains silent.


End file.
